


Shape in the Doorway

by captaineifersucht



Series: Dressed in the Scenery [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bard is his bodyguard, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Sexual Tension, Thranduil is a super successful fashion designer, awkward fumbling, bard takes baby steps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaineifersucht/pseuds/captaineifersucht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Everything about him was put together, every article of clothing picked to match the season, the weather, the location, his mood, his audience. Today, the audience was seated behind a heavy curtain, eagerly awaiting the showcasing of a new line from Greenwood. It was Bard’s job to keep Thranduil safe, to ensure that he made it from the office that he’d just emerged from, to the runway, and back home to create and design again.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shape in the Doorway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannibalsketches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsketches/gifts).



> Bodyguard AU, entirely the fault of my bb hannibalsketches. This is the first thing I've ever written in the hobbit fandom, and I adore barduil <33
> 
> let me know what you guys think, I'm planning on having three total timestamps in this AU.

The air smelled of hairspray. It was thick with it, so overpowering that the tan and white powders remained suspended in the bright lights for moments longer than they should have.

Bard remembered a time not even a year ago when the residue burned his nose, causing it to run and his eyes to water. He could recall going home to find his dark locks frozen in place, tangled in the elastic that held his neat, short ponytail, although he’d stood far from the vanities where models had their hair teased and arranged, their faces made up.

Now, his hair was the only victim of hours spent behind the scenes of the runway. Sigrid and Tilda had ceased to make fun of him, the joke had gotten old after two months, although it still took two washes of shampoo to remove the stiffness. 

To his right, a door opened. Bard stepped to the side, eyes sliding over the expanse of makeshift racks that held expensive gowns, a wide concrete floor that housed models and artists, lighting technicians, and a host of others. At first, It had been difficult to attune his senses, to block out the hustle and bustle along the floor. He looked for official badges and the tell tale stature of the men and women that would stride down the catwalk. Everyone was accounted for, no one caught his eye as out of place.

“ Mr. Sindar.”

Blue eyes turned to gaze at him from a higher vantage. Bard watched with interest as dark, thick eyebrows lowered from their seemingly eternal raised state. The icy exterior melted momentarily, a soft kindness settling across pale cheekbones. 

“ Quiet day, Bard?” Thranduil’s voice was silken, given the appearance of words carefully chosen. 

Everything about him was put together, every article of clothing picked to match the season, the weather, the location, his mood, his audience. Today, the audience was seated behind a heavy curtain, eagerly awaiting the showcasing of a new line from Greenwood. It was Bard’s job to keep Thranduil safe, to ensure that he made it from the office that he’d just emerged from, to the runway, and back home to create and design again.

“ As quiet as can be,” Bard’s voice was low, his gaze downcast. He tried to look at the designer as little as possible, loathed the feeling that crawled in his abdomen in when he saw long, white-blond hair settling at the small of Thranduil’s back in a thick braid. 

When the pink lips quirked upwards in a small smile, they began to move again. Thranduil was trailed by two assistants, one with coffee and the other carrying a leather planner and loose sheets of paper. Bard kept pace with his charge. 

He tuned out what was being spoken between employer and employee, scanning the parameter and those contained within it. His eyes skipped over Thranduil, knowing their immediate surroundings were clear. This was his career, not free time to be spent gazing at a beautiful man. And Thranduil was stunning--no one could deny it, even the designer himself openly embraced it, utilized it. .

They stopped before a vanity where Thranduil sat. Cosmetics were applied liberally to his face, his hair touched up. Bard stood as far away as he could and watched the other man out of the corner of his eyes.

Thranduil was in a dark, blue-grey knit sweater. There were three large gold buttons on the collar, over his breast bone. He wore black pants--or leggings, Bard remained unsavvy to the technicalities of trousers, but they were tight--and leather boots that came to his knee. The material was nearly black, trimmed in silver and fastened with golden accents in the shape of leaves. 

“ Ten minutes!” a technician called from near the curtain. She had a bulky headset in her ear, linked to a radio attached to her back pocket.

The models were lining up, men on one side and women on the other. Avant garde headdresses adorned some, leaves in their hair, and antlers protruding from the backs of their garments. Bard didn’t understand the practicality of some of the clothing that Thranduil created, but he could not deny its beauty. 

Slender fingers brushed the cuff of Bard’s suit jacket. He glanced down to where Thranduil sat, legs crossed.

“ Is it still cold outside, Bard?”

It made his knees weak each time his name was spoken in that tone.

“ I haven’t been out since noon.” He turned to face his employer more fully. Thranduil’s brow rose, wanting further explanation. “ It had snowed nearly three inches when I stepped outside.”

The designer hummed, tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. The female tech called a five minutes warning. “ Hopefully we won’t have to dig my car out.”

“ Let me know.”

Bard would offer his help without request, make sure that Thranduil was warm inside his car and had a clear path to return home by. He didn’t need to be paid for that.

Thranduil stood and passed by the models, thanked them by name in soft whispers. He touched their shoulders and smiled widely. These men and women were the blood of his company. Their contribution was vital and sacred. While filled with an air of superiority under most circumstances, Thranduil remained humble among those who buoyed his success.

Music blared loudly, low pulses of sound causing the floor to tremble. It faded to a more serene song, rich with strings and deepened by brass. The footfalls of Bard’s shoes and Thranduil’s boots were silent under melody.

The curtain was clutched by the technician, ready to be pulled apart for Thranduil. 

“ Good luck,” Bard called. He thought it inaudible, but Thranduil turned to face him with that same, small smile. This time, there was a flash of teeth.

Bright, colored light flooded the concrete when the fabric was pulled back. A long, thin shadow was cast back along floor and wall. Thranduil stepped out gracefully to the sound of applause and a few distinct whoops. 

Bard thought he deserved nothing less, wished to give more.

\---

The show had lasted over five hours with press calls. Bard was exhausted from shielding Thranduil from handsy paparazzi and overzealous fans. There was a surprising number of fanatics for fashion shows, Bard had thought on his first gig with Thranduil. In comparison to those shows he’d attended in New York City, this one on the West Coast was mild. He had yet to bring his girls to one, as they were still too young for him to trust being alone in such a large crowd. Bain held no interest for his current job and often pulled faces when Bard spoke to Tilda about the pretty dresses, pointing at their corresponding pictures in the look books he brought home. _Why can’t you work for the secret service, da?_

“ Ready to go, Mr. Sindar?”

Everyone else had left for the evening. Thranduil’s assistants volunteered to stay, but had been waved off. Bard stepped into the doorway, watching Thranduil packing away his messenger bag. After the event was over, the blond man was relaxed, but exhausted. The creases of tiredness were at the corner of his eyes, crinkling as he wrinkled his nose at some paperwork. 

Bard took another step inside, louder, to make sure that Thranduil knew he wasn’t spying. 

Another hum came from pursed pink lips, the chair spun to face Bard. There was an excited light in Thranduil’s bright blue eyes. 

“ I thought tonight went splendid, don’t you?”

“ Of course, always does. I really liked that last women’s coat,with all the golden feathers.” 

Thranduil frowned slightly, trying to think of what clothing item was being bought up. Then his eyes widened, the image clear in his mind. “ Ah, the blazer. I loved that one.”

More binders were placed into the bag until it was full. Thranduil gathered up three more, the thick two inch ones, to be taken home atop his desk before getting into his outer wear. With the bag lying heavily on one shoulder, black peacoat, and an olive green infinity scarf wrapped about his neck, Thranduil was already burdened. As he reached for the binders, Bard stepped in his way. He took them into his arms and the two headed out of the makeshift office and towards the rear exit. 

“ It’s pretty cold out there, Mr. Sindar. Wanna put on your gloves before we get outside?” Bard asked as they stopped before the door.

“ Bard,” and there was that warmth spreading in the pit of his stomach. “ Could you please call me Thranduil? We’ve talked about this.”

The designer dug his driving gloves out, began to tug them on as Bard blushed. He liked to forget about those conversations, monthly as they were. It never felt right to call his boss by his first name--he didn’t want to get close, to remove any barriers. With each wall that came down between them, Bard’s desires grew. He could vividly recall the first night he had escorted Thranduil back to his car.

“ Perhaps,” Bard conceded, pushing the door open with his elbow when the other man signalled he was ready with a nod. 

There was a harsh gust of wind around them, the howling loud in his ears. They trudged out to the blond’s silver hybrid, a four door that was unlocked when Bard reached it. He grappled with the back seat, placing the binders on the plush seats. Thranduil leaned in to lie the bag down at the same time and their heads knocked together, Bard’s beard brushing against a smooth cheek. 

He jumped back with a gasp, fingers brushing against the back of Thranduil’s gloved hand. His feet slipped, shoes untreaded like the other’s boots. He stabilized himself, bottom of his black pants wet from snow melt and his cheek and hand burning. 

“ I’m sorry!” Thranduil gasped, grabbing Bard’s wrist in an attempt to steady his body, although he was now firmly planted on two feet. “ I should have waited… Bard, are you okay?”

The smile trembled on Bard’s face, half from the cold and the remainder because he was in shock. There was no ordinary concern writ across pale cheeks, but genuine worry. “ I’m fine. Thranduil.”

He was met with a similar parting of lips, red painted across a beautiful face, tinting the endearingly pointy tips of Thranduil’s ears. The snow fell heavily around them, coming to rest in the white-blond hair that looked almost ethereal in the streetlights. 

If this image was the reward for using his employer’s forename, Bard was willing to take the chance on his heart.


End file.
